


John Watson and the Sociopath

by angelbaby731



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Domestic, Fluff, M/M, my friend co-wrote chapter 9 with me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2017-12-22 05:00:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelbaby731/pseuds/angelbaby731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is Sherlock's best and ONLY friend. What happens when Sherlock starts to feel something deep down that he (in all immaturity) doesn't recognize?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Check notes at end, please! :) Also, this is my first Johnlock, so if I miss anything, please let me know!

**Sherlock**

Sherlock's ears rang with exasperation. His heart raced. He couldn't find his nicotine patches anywhere, and he was sure to do something he'd regret very soon. He had looked under his skull, on his desk, and in his dresser, but didn't find them. John padded into the lounge, with tea cup in hand, and settled down on the couch to check his blog. John slung his quilt (gift from Harry) over his shoulders, and as he began to take his laptop out, he noticed Sherlock's frustration. He simply said, “On your desk, under your journal,” and opened his computer with a flourish.

Sherlock scowled at John's smug expression and retrieved his patches.

“How many patches today?” John asked, his voice so low it was barely audible. John always seemed so concerned about Sherlock, with his past being like it was...

Sherlock began to slap patches on. “Three,” Sherlock said, holding up his patched arm. “But the case is coming to a close.” Sherlock began to bustle about his desk, mumbling to himself occasionally. After a few minutes of silence, John snapped his laptop shut and dropped it into the bag hanging on the side of the couch. He let out a soft sigh and let his head drop to touch the top of the couch. Sherlock glanced up long enough to study his friends face.

His face looked more worn this morning; lines were deeper. John had his right hand over his left shoulder. His bullet wound. Sherlock was suddenly ambushed by a nauseating wave of protectiveness. He furrowed his brow and jut out his bottom lip. “Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, unable to keep the concern out of his voice. John lingered with his head back for a moment, then sighed, raising his head. He rubbed his hands over his face, and said, “I'm fine Sherlock, just tired. Don't you worry about me one bit. I'll just stay here and watch telly.” To prove his point, he slung his legs up onto the couch and spread out, turning on the television in the process. “Here,” Sherlock said. He stood up and carefully made his way to the couch, avoiding the messy piles of last nights “experiment”. Gently he lifted Johns head and sat down.

John immediately settled back in to Sherlock's lap. A surge of panic raced through Sherlock, and he had to swallow six gulps of air before his heart slowed down to its normal pace again. What was that? Sherlock felt nauseous all of a sudden, and it was all he could do to keep from throwing up on John. Stop it, Sherlock, He scolded himself. He is your best friend, your ONLY friend. Don't screw it up by getting mushy. Sentiment is weakness. Sherlock had learned that quite a bit from Irene Adler. Was this sentiment? Or was it something else, something much, much deeper...? “Shut up,” Sherlock chided himself, then realized he had been muttering to himself, and John had told him to shut up.


	2. Sometimes the Heart Sees What the Eyes Miss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is forced to see the good in Sherlock.

 

**JW**

 

**When will you be home? -SH**

 

**5:30. Why? -JW**

 

**I'm thirsty and we're out of milk. -SH**

 

**Then get off your butt and go get some! -JW**

 

**But you always do the shopping. -SH**

 

**Exactly. -JW**

 

 

Dr. John Watson dropped his phone on his desk and swiveled to the filing cabinet. Why Sherlock couldn't leave his Mind Palace long enough to get the bloody milk was beyond him. John rubbed his temples, trying to clear the memory of Sherlock's cynicism from his head. _Sarah,_ he thought. He grabbed his cell phone and punched speed dial 4.

 

“Hey! You've reached Sarah, I'm not near the phone right now, please leave a message or try again later.” John pushed out of his incredibly uncomfortable chair. He scooped his jacket off the back of the chair and made his way to the door. 

 

Outside 221B Baker Street, Sherlock was sitting on the steps, dark curls splayed across his pale forehead. Ignoring him, John unlocked the door to the flat and marched up the stairs. Dropping the groceries (including milk) on the counter, he made his way to the lounge. Sherlock padded in after him, hovering as John reclined on the sofa. “Can I help you?” John snapped. Hurt flashed in Sherlock's eyes as he stepped back. “Milk?” He inquired softly. Now John felt bad. He gestured to the counter. Would he ever understand Sherlock?

 

 

It had been a fairly slow day, the wind biting cold. John and Sherlock had been called to assist in the investigation of a triple homicide including gang activity. Through gritted teeth, John managed, “How are you not cold?” Sherlock hastily removed his scarf and draped it over John's neck. John blushed when he realized how much he enjoyed wearing the sash of blue warmth. Sherlock paid no attention as he began deducing Sally and Anderson's secret relationship. “Wife not home, Sally is shrouded with the scent of moron... Hmmm...” He murmured just loud enough for John to hear.

 

John loved it when Sherlock deduced things. It made everything so clear, like the pieces of an impossible puzzle were falling into place. Come to think of it, it was always like that with Sherlock. Everything felt so simple, so clear... So right. John had come back from Afghanistan with seemingly no purpose in life. In one week, Sherlock had changed that. His limp was gone, nightmares vanquished, and life was full of vivid color. When Sherlock had jumped off the roof of the bloody St. Barts, John had realized that he truly loved Sherlock, not that he would ever say it out loud, even to Harry or his therapist. He had spend years, _three bloody YEARS_ believing Sherlock, his best friend, was dead, until one day he walked in the lounge to find Sherlock, tea in hand, on John's laptop. That was the first time- and last- John had ever fainted. 

 

Jarred back to the world by Sherlock's bony elbow in his ribcage, John noticed how dark it had gotten. “Cased closed,” Sherlock said simply. “We can go home now.” John nodded and they trodded in the direction of Baker Street.

 


	3. Sometimes All It Takes Is A Little Push

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock refuses to stay out of John's way. What happens when John gets fed up?

>On the first day of August, Sherlock prances through the door to 221B with a small package in hand. As John settled on the couch with a cup of tea, Sherlock flew into the room, swiping John's laptop as he passed.

"Oi!" John exclaimed. "Get your laptop, it's right on the desk!"

"Yes but yours was closer," Sherlock replied. "Problem?" John opened his mouth to protest, but quickly shut it. He knew if he said anything, Sherlock would deduce just how badly John's date went last night.

John stood, perhaps a little too quickly, and knocked over his tea. Sherlock jumped at the sound of shattering glass, and practically dove to the floor to pick up the pieces. Standing, he dropped the shares into John's rough, military hands. Sherlock flinched as a piece of glass caught his thumb.

"Here, let me get that for you," John said, placing the glass on the table. He reached for Sherlocks Hand, and taking it in his own,was surprised at the how soft they were. John dragged Sherlock behind him into the Kitchen. As Sherlock sat at the table, John retrieved the first aid kit. He popped the box open and began to unravel a bit of gauze.

"John..." Sherlock said quietly. John hummed. "What is it like being in love...?"

John dropped the strip he was about to drape over Sherlocks hand and stared up at him.

"W-what?"

Sherlock smirked. "You know I hate repeating myself."

John said, "Well I can't really explain..."

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Have you ever been in love?"

"Yes." Something flashed in Sherlocks eyes. Sadness? Anger?  _Hurt..._

 _  
_"With who?" Sherlock asked.

"Two people. Once was in high school, but that was over before it started. After that I wasn't _in love_ for a very long time."

Sherlock gulped, something bubbling in his chest. "And... the second?"

"Still,"  John breathed dreamily. "But this time it could never happen."

Sherlock was shaking now. "Why not?"  
  


 John looked him dead in the eye. "He can't ever know. It would ruin everything." John stood up, mumbled something about a shower, and meander off towards the bathroom. Sherlock sighed and leaned back in his chair.

 

 _How much can a person withstand before they break?_ Sherlock wondered.


	4. Using the Words Screaming in the Back of My Mind... Or Never Getting There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock finally get together...

"Sherlock!" John called as he kicked the door to 221B shut, careful not to drop his groceries. He stumbled into the kitchen, narrowly avoiding knocking over the coat rack. As he dropped the brown paper bags on the counter, he noticed a plate on the counter. Cookies. God bless Mrs. Hudson!

John stepped into the living room, and upon noticing silky black curls over the edge of the sofa, he moved around to the other side.

_Sherlock..._ John wanted to run his hands through that mane of fluff. He wanted to brush Sherlock's cheek, to feel his warmth, to...

Nope. John grabbed Sherlock's hand.

_"Sherlock..."_ He whispered. The taller man shifted, his hand falling and slapping himself in the face. Making very unnattractive snorting noises, he sat up, running a hand over his face.

"Hello, John." The detective said, drowsy from sleep. 

"Hello, Sherlock." Sherlock stood up suddenly, standing so close to John they were sharing air. John cleared his throat, turning towards the kitchen. He strode to the table, practically ripping the milk out of the bag. Opening the fridge and finding body parts has become normal, so John just shifted the fingers to make room for the milk. As he shut the door, he jumped. 

It was Sherlock.

Again.

_A-hem._

"Tea?" John asked. "Yes, great idea."

They both lunged for the teapot, and accidentally brushed hands. John's heart stopped. He had been trying so hard, for so long to ignore his feelings for Sherlock, and he was NOT going to give in now.

Unless, of course, Sherlock had anything to say about it.

"Sorry, sorry, I'll- get out of your way." John stuttered, moving to leave.

"No," Sherlock almost shouted, reaching out and grasping John's arm. Then quieter: "Please. Please stay."

Sherlock ran his fingers down John's arm, sending shivers up John's back, and stopped at the wrist.  _Pulse,_ John thought.  _He's taking my pulse._ John didn't care. He had never felt that brave, standing there and staring straight into Sherlock's eyes, daring him to question John's arousal. John could practically feel his pupils dihilating.

And then their lips were pressed together in a sloppy, long awaited kiss. All of the pain they had gone through, John's anger at Sherlock for leaving him, and Sherlock's broken heart, poured out and made for extra pressure in the room. if you asked either how their first kiss felt, they would only smile and demonstrate.

All too soon, Sherlock pulled away and flicked his eyes towards the cookies. "Cookies and milk?" He asked.

"Oh,  _god_ yes!" 


	5. Christmasses When You Were Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas comes around once again, but John's heart still hurts from Sherlock's return.

**Sherlock**

**  
**Christmas is dull.  John enjoys it, but in the Holmes' house growing up, it just resulted in many awkward dinners. John, on the flip side, adores Christmas, and if me tolerating Christmas for him ins't love, than Donovan might've been right about me.

I am a freak.

But to say the least, I was less than surprised to learn that John and I were going to get a Christmas tree. John is into all the traditional Christmas workings, so we were going all out apparently. Eggnog, decorations, the works. 

After long Hours of choosing the right tree, and, not to mention, getting it into the flat, we finally sat on the couch with some hot cocoa and a fire blazing. 

John had the radio on, and some sappy Taylor Swiffer Duster song came on, and I blocked it out. Although, halfway through the song, John's shoulders started shaking, so I listened :

 

  
**_I've been doing fine without you, really_ **  
**_Up until the nights got cold_ **  
**_And everybody's here, except you, baby_ **  
**_Seems like everyone's got someone to hold_ **

**_But for me it's just a lonely time_ **  
**_Cause there were Christmases when you were mine_ **  


 

Then I realized...

John missed me.

Three years of me being "dead" and John believed I was never coming back. I held my arms out and tilted my head forward. John sniffled and leaned into my embrace. I breathed in his scent, the smell of his shampoo, and slowly the top of his head became damp with my tears. I kissed John-MY John- on the head and leaned down the whisper in his ear:

_Merry Christmas, Baby._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS WAS SHORTER THEN ANTICIPATED BECAUSE I CAN'T SEE THROUGH THE TEARS


	6. Some Angst From Jawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Read the title ;)

**John Watson**

**  
**Sometimes I wonder if, given enough time, I could find my Mind Palace. Maybe I could even keep up with Sherlock's deductions.

 

But for now, I'm okay to be his sidekick.

 

Following him around at crime scenes,trying to keep up as we sprint through the alley ways off the streets of London, it's all worth it, as long as he never leaves me again. I didn't mean to break down that night on the couch. I just couldn't help it; I had missed him so much, I had thought he  _died._

_  
_I almost had to jump, too.

 

It was six months before I could drag myself back to the flat. Mrs. Hudson had left the microscopes and dishes for me to take care of. I saw him, looking through the scope. He wasn't really there, of course, but that didn't stop the tears from running down my face. Maybe if I had said something. If I had told him how I felt, maybe it would have gone differently. I never told him he was my best friend. I never let him know what he did for me. He saved my life. He cured me of my limp. He gave me a purpose, a chance.

 

He gave me a chance to live a full life.

 

I still get sad when I think of my last words to him: He had said, "Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." And I had snapped, "No, friends protect people." Only now do I realize what he really meant. If he had never met me, he never would have had to lose me, even if only for a short time.

 

I stormed off, only minutes before he said those last words. "Good-bye, John."

 

When sherlock came back, it was like a stab to the heart. A reminder of what I coud have said, or done.

 

And now I will never,  ** _EVER,_** lose him again.


	7. Some Angst From Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title! =)

**Sherlock Holmes**

 

Sometimes my heart still breaks when I think about how I hurt him. I left John, my best friend, to believe me dead. I could never tell him what I really did during those three years; he would be so angry.

I drank.

I drank myself into oblivion, until all I could do was sit and cry. On more than one occasion, Mycroft sent Anthea to take me back to Molly's. I was staying there until I could knock out every remaining strand of Moriarty's web. After he died, many of his minions, ones he had created a new life for, became very angry. I don't think any of them considered John, but still I could never let it happen.

A few months after  _ **I**_ "died," John came to my grave with Mrs. Hudson. She talked about how angry she was, but I could deduce that she was trying not to fall apart for his sake. Then she left, and John was alone. I seriously considered stepping out, pretending to be an angel, ghost, anything. But I knew It would be too soon to return.

That was the first time in nineteen years that I cried.

He said things like I was a good man, that he owed me... Typical stuff. And then he said, "Sherlock, please... One more miracle, don't be... Dead... Just stop this, stop all of this."

And then he cried. No one had ever cried for me, not even Mycroft. That was when I knew.

I knew that when I returned, I could never leave again. I knew I had to find a way for me and John to be together. I knew how much he meant to me.

And I knew I was in love with a beautiful army doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very very short, I know... writing John and Sherlock's account of angst was too depressing lol


	8. Mrs. Hudson Should Really Learn to Knock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has some questions for John, and John has no way but to tell Sherlock about his feelings...

Is it possible to love someone too much? Could it hurt one's mental stability to exceed the breaking point of affection?

John thought it so. He had been to hell and back for loving Sherlock. He had experienced breaking out in hives at the thought of not being with him. He knew what it was like to love someone so much it was like a fever. And he knew he had to do something about it. He couldn't lose Sherlock again. Never again.

John couldn't just come out of nowhere and declare his undying love, though. Since the kiss, they hadn't really talked about the whole relationship thing. In fact, the hadn't really spoken about it at all.

But of course, John ended up having to anyway. One day, as Sherlock sat on the couch approxamatly six months after his return, Sherlock asked John, "Why?"

John looked at him uncertainly. "Why what?"

"Why did you stick up for me like you did in my absence? Why do you care so much?"

Ah. This again. John pondered on how to answer this. Then everything was clear. He would not leave anything unsaid. He would never make that mistake again. If he didn't say it now, he couldn't gaurantee he ever would. 

He rose from his chair and sauntered over to Sherlock. Clamping his hands down on the taller man's knees, he leaned in close enough to smell Sherlock's shampoo. "Because," He whispered seductively.

"I..." Nip on the ear.

"Am..." Kiss on the jawbone.

" _ **DESPERATELY..."**_ Kiss on the cheek.

"In love..." Kiss on the nose.

Sherlock gulped, his heart racing and irises taken over by darkness. "W-well..." He stuttered stupidly.  John looked deep into those black eyes.

"With you."

Sherlock didn't care what the sun revolved around, but when John kissed him, he knew that his entire universe had always revolved around John. He surged forward, grabbing John's jumper and pulling him closer. John fell into Sherlock's lap, and reached up to run his hands through that midnight mane as he had fantisized for so long. Sherlock gasped and parted his lips to deepen the kiss. With both men blinded by arousal and fighting for control, neither heard the door open.

_**CRASH!!!** _

_**  
**_John jumped away from Sherlock as if he had been shocked. Mrs. Hudson, red from embarrassment of waalking in on such an intimate moment, bent to pick up the plate of brownies she had dropped, turned and left without a word. Sherlock looked at John and they laughed until their sides hurt.


	9. Almost There...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little bit of mixed up Johnlock

John and Sherlock burst through the door of 221 Baker Street laughing hysterically. They had just solved the case in which the daughter had killed the mother, and were still high off of adrenaline. They tried to stop giggling as the stumbled up the steps to 221b. When the reached their flat, John set about making tea, and Sherlock started doing... whatever it is Sherlock does. When the kettle began to whistle, John poured two cups- one with milk in it, for himself, and the other with sugar, for Sherlock. He brought it into the den and sat on the couch, placing Sherlocks tea next to him as an invitation. Sherlock obliged, and rose from his chair to sit with John on the couch, taking his tea as he swiveled gracefully to sit down.

They talked over the case, and after a few minutes of chatting, Sherlock cleared his throat and began, "John I'd wanted to keep this relationship strictly professional, but I can't help but notice the obvious, that you are a part of my work," he went on as he fiddled with the deer stalker he had removed from the mantle. He took a deep breath, trying to stop the color that had risen quickly to his cheeks. "I have strong feelings toward you..." John smiled, trying to coax out the real words. "Is that so?" He asked. Sherlock shrugged and nodded.

"I love you. Obviously John! Had it not occurred to your little mind?" John chuckled at the reaction he had often gotten out of the insane detective. He took Sherlocks hand in his own and raised it to his lips, placing a sweet kiss into his palm. "I know, Sherlock, I know."

Sherlock removed his hand with John's grasp, moving it to rest his hand on John's cheek. The shorter man moved closer and rested his head in the crook of Sherlocks neck. They sat there for a few minutes before Sherlock cleared his throat. "Yes," John said. "I love you, too, Sherlock!" Sherlock smiled and stood to move into the kitchen. John followed and got out some vegetables and meat, setting them on the counter. Sherlock looked at them questioningly until John noticed and said, "Lets be dull... we are making dinner together." 

Once they'd finished cooking, they sat at the table and ate in silence, the sounds of forks poking at the glass plates filling the room. John kept sneaking peeks at Sherlock once he'd finished. The taller man had all of three bites and had gone into his stationary position, fingers steepled under his chin and his eyes cosed. John took this moment to observe him. _Such a beautiful man he is,_ he thought. Dark hair, making his skin look like ivory. Long, slender fingers.  _Too skinny._ "Sherlock, I really think you should eat a bit more, yeah?" He prodded. Sherocks eyes opened and he frowned. "I'm thinking. "

"Is it more important than your health?" Sherlock smirked at his doctor. "Is  _anything_ more important than your health?" John asked, exasperated. In response, Sherlock smiled sweetly and said, "Nothing is more important to me than you!" John blushed to his ears.  _Kiss up,_  John thought as he pulled Sherlock up by the collar of that blessed purple shirt and dragged him into the living room. He shoved the man of brilliance into a chair gingerly.

Sherlock looked upon the man he had yearned for since he saw the tan lines on his wrists. John straddled his waist and leaned in for a satisfying kiss. His breath hitched when the fluttering in his stomach became too much. Sherlock pulled back for a breath and craddled Johns cheek in his palm. "I never expected this afternoons events to end up like this." He flushed deep red. "Its just you and me now." John winked and loosed the famous blue scarf from around the brilliant mans beautiful neck and at the same time, kissing Sherlocks jawline sensually. Sherlock shuddered, and unusual heat flooding his body.

Sherlock, being inexpirienced, did not know what to do with his hands as John expertly sucked on his neck. He placed them, palms down, on the arms of the chair. John paused for just a moment to chuckle; Sherlock was so nervous! The former army doctor leaned back on the lengthy legs of the beautiful man before him to look into those iridescent eyes. "Why so nervous?" He whispered alluringly as he repositioned himself on Sherlocks legs. 

"I'm not nervous. That would insinuate being intimidated and I am not intimidated by you, doctor." John held back a giggle. "It's all right, we can take it slow." Sherlock muttered under his breath as John slid off of his lap and landed on the couch beside him. He turned on the telly and sighed dramatically. A moment passed, and he sighed again, even louder. Sherlock grabbed him and pulled him close enough so that Johns head would lay on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, love," Sherlock started. "You are the first person I have ever loved-" John clamped his hand over Sherlocks perfect mouth. "I am your first and I will also be your last!" John said in one breath and blushed to his ears at the end. He started to stand, but stopped when Sherklock pressed his head back down onto his shoulder gently.

"Please stay." He pleaded as he took Johns hand into his. "I'll never leave. I can't, you've gone and gotten me emotionally comprimised." Sherlock winced at his choice of words. "'Emotionally comprimised?'" John mocked, but Sherlock took it as a question.

"Absolutely. No going back from here. Besides, I consider myself married to my work." John raised his eyebrows. Sherlock ignored it and rubbed John's arm, a smile spreading across his lips.

"John, you are very... interesting."


	10. I'll Try

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unresolved anger

I slam my door as hard as I can. Sherlock has such a damn need to be a twat all the time. I change my mind about ignoring him and head back into the kitchen where he's sat with his feet tucked up under him. "I fucking HATED you, Sherlock. You left me. You fucking left me. You know how that feels? No, because you don't feel anything. I HATED YOU. FOR TWO DAMN YEARS, SHERLOCK." I scream at the top of my lungs. "I love you and you LEFT me." I say quieter. I roll up my sleeves. Self-harm scars cover my arms. After a good ten seconds, I lift up my shirt and show him the scars across my abdomen as well. "These are from you! I did this because of you!" I scream, almost happy about how shocked he looks. My happiness is soon replaced by guilt as his expression darkens. He looks at me with sad eyes, and stands up, beginning to invitation his shirt. I avert my eyes. "Sherlock, what the- why..." I end my sentence with a gasp. His shirt drops to the floor, and I suddenly understand why he never wanted me to see him without a shirt. Scars litter his upper body, but not only self inflicted ones. Among self harm scars are scars from beatings. I know what they look like from my many years in army medicine taking care of men rescued from captivity. He has burn marks, markings that resemble ropes and whips, and other various markings. I'm so shocked I feel my ears pop. I'm still gaping when I hear a few whispered words. "I did this FOR you..." ------------------------------- Sherlock runs out of the flat with his coat, leaving John still in the kitchen. He doesn't know where else to go, so he finds himself on Lestrade's doorstep. Lestrade himself answers the door, welcoming the Detective in. After a long chat about how stupid Lestrade is, the officer asks why Sherlock is there. "John and I had a... quarrel." Sherlock says awkwardly. Lestrade blinks. "About what?" "John thinks he endured more with me gone then I did. I was tortured, and he self-harmed but he still thinks he had it worse." Lestrade blinks again. "Well, he did have some... emotional issues with you gone." "Okay but really though, it wasn't that bad. Why didn't he just move on?" Lestrade snaps. "You weren't THERE Sherlock! You didn't get the drunk phone calls in the early hours of morning. You didn't rush to the cemetery to see him sitting on your grave with his gun in his mouth!" Sherlock looks as if he had been slapped in the face. "That.... That actually happened?" Sherlock asks. "YES." Lestrade says. "Yes." "Thank you, George." "GREG!" Sherlock once again grabs his coat and rushes onto the busy street, this time heading home. Upon reaching his flat, Sherlock threw his coat down on the stairs and takes the steps three at a time. He opens the door so quickly it slams against the wall, no doubt waking Ms. Hudson. There was so sign of John in the sitting room, so Sherlock went to check his bedroom. John was nowhere to be found. Sherlock decided to go check local bars. Knowing John, that's where he would be. Sherlock dashed down the hall to grab his wallet, previously left on his dresser. He opened the door to his bedroom and stopped dead in his tracks. John removed the gun from between his teeth, eyes wide and glistening with tears. Sherlock felt so raw, like his throat was made of sandpaper. "John." Sherlock said, voice cracking. "Sher." John said. Sherlock sprang onto the bed, knocked the gun onto the floor (clearly not the safest move but at the moment he didn't care) and held John so tightly. "John, I'm sorry, I was so wrong. I was so, so wrong. Please forgive me?" "I'll try."


	11. Flashback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback to a year after Sherlocks death

*1 year after Sherlocks death*

*1 year after Sherlocks "death"*

I'm awoken by my cell phone buzzing on the nightstand. Groaning, I sit up and pull it towards me. I quint at the bright screen in my dimly lit bedroom.

-incoming call from John Watson-

I slide to accept, pressing the phone to my ear and laying back down in bed.   
"Hello?" I mutter, attempting to hide my annoyance.  
"Hellooooo," I hear. I open my eyes and look at my phone screen, confused.   
"John? Is that you?" I ask.  
"Yeah, Gregory Lestrade, of course it's me," John slurs.  
I screw my eyes shut, pinching the bridge if my nose. "How drunk are you?" I ask.  
"I've got three empty bottles of vodka and I don't know how I got here."   
I sigh, climbing out of bed and holding my phone between my shoulder and ear so I can get dressed. "I'll come get you, where are you?"  
"The cemetery."  
I freeze. "Alright buddy I'll be there soon, don't move okay?"   
John agrees and I hang up, rushing around and getting ready before dashing out the door.

\--

The grass crunches under my feet as I run through the cemetery gate. Dew soaks the bottoms of my pants, but I keep running. I reach the section of the graveyard where I have visited many times and look around, panting.  
Sitting atop our old friend's grave is a blond man with a gun between his teeth.   
"John?" I call out hesitantly, not wanting to startle him. He glances at me, and in the light of the lamppost I see tears on his cheeks and vomit on his shirt. I walk slowly towards him, hands out in front of me as a gesture of peace. John sobs and the gun falls out of his hand onto the ground.   
I run forward, kicking the gun out of reach and grabbing John before he has the chance to try to move. He shorter man claws at my jacket, taking fistfuls and then releasing it. He sobs into my shoulder, and I let him, feeling myself fall apart as well.  
"The stupid ass..." John whispers into my shoulder.   
"I know, I know..." I mumble.  
John continues cursing and crying into my shirt, and I let him. I'm crying as well, and I have to keep reminding myself that I'm here to comfort John, not be comforted.   
We sit for a long time, and as the sun rises over the gravestones, John is asleep. I carry him to my car, and put him in the passenger side. I turn the key in the ignition, jumping to turn down the radio as One Direction music fills the car. I don't want to wake John up.   
As I drive, I look over at the man next to me. This is probably to first time he's slept in ages, judging by the bags under his eyes. He has also lost a ton of weight; his cheekbones are hollowed out. That was probably why it was so easy to carry him.   
When I reach his new apartment, the opposite side of the town from Baker Street, I carry him up the stairs and grab his key from his pocket. I put him into bed and turn to leave.  
"Thank you." I could've sworn I heard Sherlocks voice as a whisper, but when I turn around, all I see is John passed out scrawled over his bed. I shake my head and head out, hoping this is the last of the drunk phone calls for a while.

**Author's Note:**

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